


The Origin Star

by neckbows



Category: South Park
Genre: Action, Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, Stick of Truth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neckbows/pseuds/neckbows
Summary: The Drow Elves and the Humans have been enemies almost since time immemorial. Despite this, a tenuous peace was created a decade prior. But when the peace is broken, the land spirals into war once more. Only one thing can stop it: The Origin Star. An artifact from the time of the world's creation with the power of the ancient gods that shaped the land. He who holds it holds immeasurable power. But there are those who would wield its power unjustly. Will it bring peace and healing to the war-torn lands? Or will its holy glow bring only further destruction?





	1. Prologue

### Prolouge

“What the hell, Fatass!?”

Kyle glared daggers at Cartman, hands curling into firsts around the costume he had been putting on.

“Kyle’s right, Cartman,” Stan offered, “I think the game should focus on the elves this time. The humans always get the spotlight. Let’s change it up a little.”

“Kahl’s wite cahtman.” Eric repeated Stan’s words in a mocking falsetto. “Can’t you do anything other than kiss your boyfriend’s ass? Look, let me explain this to you as simply as possible; when have stupid elves ever been the main characters of a fantasy story? The answer is never. Not in Lord of the Rings, or in the Hobbit, or in Game of Thrones.”

“There aren’t any elves in Game of Thrones at all, Cartman!” Kyle snapped

“What are you talking about, of course there are! What about all those weird tree people, and that one really short guy?”

“Cartman, that short guy is Tyrion Lannister! He’s a central character and also a human!”

“Exactly my point!” Cartman said in a smug tone that made Kyle want to throttle him.

“You’re not making any sense.” Stan said, a hand on Kyle’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter! I’m the grand wizard: leader of the humans and therefore, I’m the leader of the game, too! So you can’t do anything about it.”

“No you’re not.” Stan said, frowning. Cartman blinked, the smile on his face trading places with a look of bewilderment.

“Not what?”

“Not the leader of the humans.”

“Dude, what are you saying? Of course I am.”

 

“No you’re not,” Kyle joined in, “Kenny is.” He pointed to the fourth boy who had up until then kept silent, making sure his wig was placed securely on his head. “He’s Princess Kenny, remember? That makes him royalty. So by the logic you used earlier, Kenny’s in charge.”

“Woohoo!” Kenny vocalized, grinning between the three of them.

“What? No! Kenny can’t be the leader! Kenny’s poor! What does he know about being leader of anything!”

“Fuck you, Cartman!” The blond boy said, now also glaring at the other.

“Yeah! So Kenny what do you think? Can we be the main characters this time?” Kyle asked. But before he could get an answer, Cartman had given Kyle a shove. The jewish boy went tumbling into Stan, sending both of them onto the pavement on their asses.

“Wait! Kenny, don’t answer him yet! I have five dollars! If you pick my side of this, all of it’s yours.”

“Five dollars? Hell yeah! Humans rule!”

“HAH! Suck it, you elven fuck!” Cartman sneered, victorious as his two foes picked themselves up off the dirt.

“Damn it, Cartman!” Kyle howled, cheeks flushing red enough in his fury to match his curly hair. “Fuck this! Fuck you! We don’t have to play with you! We’ll play out our own story without you! “

“Yeah, screw you, Cartman.” Together, Stan and Kyle retreated, determined to have all the fun they could without the others.

“Hey! Where do you two think you’re going!? You can’t just walk out like that!! … FINE! ENJOY YOUR STUPID ELF STORY!” Cartman shouted, then, voice dropping to a quiet mutter, added, “while you can…”


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stan and Kyle's elven adventure begins. Stan Marshwalker and his loyal wolf companion, Sparky, hunt down a deer which they intend to bring back to the Drow Village to be cured for winter. However, their pleasant hunting trip is interrupted when a small platoon of human foot soldiers trounces through their territory, and a violent and bloody skirmish ensues.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Animal Death, Gore, Blood

### Chapter 1

 

     The trees grew tall in the ancient part of the forest. The leafy canopy filtered the mid-day sunlight, casting the world in a green dimness. The low-light offered cover for a wolf and his human companion as they looked into a clearing. The human held his breath as he watched the stag they had been tracking raise its head and look around warily. He didn’t dare move. The two of them had been tracking this deer for hours, and scaring it away would result in even more time being added to the hunt, or possibly even losing the target. Going home empty handed wasn’t an option, so he remained as still and silent as stone, the wolf beside him mirroring this.

     After what felt like hours, the stag seemed to relax and returned to grazing in the clearing. The human let out a slow, hissing breath and slowly placed a hand on the wolf’s neck. It was time. He pursed his lips and released a high pitched whistling sound, lifting his hand from the beast. The deer’s head shot up, alerted by the sudden noise, but it was too late to run. The wolf’s muscles were like steel as it lunged into the clearing at full speed. In the blink of an eye it’s jaws were around the poor creature’s throat. The human turned his head away and slammed shut his eyes as the sounds of a bloody struggle filled the clearing. He counted the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...  and then it stopped. His eyes remained closed until a subtle movement beside him told him that the wolf had returned. The large creature’s muzzle was now stained a dark red. The human sighed and stroked the wolf’s bristly fur.

     “Good job, Sparky,” he said softly, raising himself from a crouching position, “Thank you.”

     The pair entered the clearing and approached the broken animal. The forest floor was quickly wicking away the blood into its loamy soil. The human examined the deer mournfully, taking in its large size and intimidating horns. With the addition of all this meat, the tribe’s food stores would be greatly bolstered. This would make the coming winter months much more bearable. But he had no way of getting this enormous beast back to the village himself. The human pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips. He puffed his breath into the opening between his thumbs, creating a lilting bird call that seemed to fill the air. Then he turned his attention back to the deer, kneeling between its front and hind legs.

     “Thank you for your sacrifice,” He whispered, a knife blade rasping against its sheath as it was removed from his belt, “though you have died, you will sustain the lives of many others.”

     The knife plunged into the deer’s chest. Within minutes, he had gutted it and put the entrails to the side for Sparky. The wolf had done its job and now would be rewarded. As his lupine companion chowed down with gusto, he began the task of carefully skinning and butchering the animal. His knife moved quickly, cutting the flesh into fillets of varying size and quality. As each steak came free from the bones and sinew, he placed it in the scavenging pouch that hung at his size. It was nearly full by the time Sparky perked up his ears, and the human heard the sound of five pairs of feet striking the ground. He stood and turned to face the source of the noise.

     Five Drow Elf rangers stood in a semicircle around him. They were lean and clearly powerful, with well-defined muscles in their arms and shoulders. They all stared at the human, their green eyes seeming to glow in the dim lighting. Sparky turned his eyes to the one closest to him and let out a low, threatening growl. The elf on the left flank of the semicircle looked at the wolf and flapped a dismissive hand at him.

     “Oh stop it, Sparky. We’re not gonna touch your dinner. Lousy wolf.”

     Everyone laughed. The Drow strode forward to examine the deer carcass. One threw his arm around the human’s shoulders.

     “For creation’s sake, Stanly! Look at the size of this thing! When you signaled us, we knew you must have gotten something big if you needed our help to get it back, but this is massive! I don’t think I could fit that rack through my front door!” Stan smiled and pushed the ranger’s arm off of him.

     “Well, it wasn’t easy. This guy led Spark and me around for hours. He kept on running away every time I thought we had him. And in the end, Sparky was the one who did all the hard work.”

     “Hah!” He and the other four Drow knelt and began to slice off hunks of meat for their own foraging pouches, some of which already held smaller prey, like rabbits or squirrels. “Soft-hearted Stan can take down a beast three times his size, but can’t bring himself to look while doing it. Why’d you become a ranger if you detest the task so much?" 

     “I’m just good at it, is all,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders.

     “Good is an understatement,” piped a female ranger, brandishing her knife at him. “We are good. We were built for this environment and this task. It’s part of being one of the elven races. But you’re a human! If all you could do was keep up with us, that would be good. But no, you don’t just keep up, you outpace us! I say the Ancients gave you a gift.”

     Stan shook his head dismissively but smiled. He appreciated the praise. He knew she was right; while his skill with a bow was negligible at best, he was a gifted hunter, tracker, and--perhaps above all else--animal handler. Being a skilled ranger made him feel like he was truly a part of the community that had raised him as one of their own. Perhaps it was a way of thanking them for rescuing an orphaned babe and a wolf cub…

     He was snapped out of his introspection by the weight of an entire deerskin being thrown on him. He flailed a bit until he found his way out from under it and freed his head. His fellow rangers laughed at him. It seemed that while he had been staring off into the distance, lost in his own thoughts, his companions had finished piecing the deer. Not a thing had gone to waste. Bones were split up among the five of them and would be stewed for flavor. The tendons were wound and could be dried and treated to be used as medical thread should someone need stitches. The antlers were taken from the skull and would be broken down and sharpened for use in traps and weapons. All that remained was the skull, placed respectfully facing east so that the animal’s spirit could escape into the beyond. All was as it should be. Stan rolled up the skin and let it drape around his shoulders. Sparky returned to his side, licking his muzzle with contentment. Stan looked around at all of them in turn and smiled.

     “Time to head back, I guess.” There was a murmur of assent and the six of them, plus wolf, began the trek back to the Drow village.

     Chasing the deer had led them quite far out of their way, so all were prepared for a long return trip. Conversation started between them, casual and free-flowing, with no particular theme or purpose. Weather, speculation about the coming winter, gossip; all were touched upon in some capacity or another. Eventually, the subject strayed onto the topic of stories.

     “Who is sharing the story tonight? Does anyone remember,” asked the tallest of the rangers raising her hands into the air to let her fingertips slide along the shapes of the lowest tree branches?

      “It’s Ike. Remember, he just returned from visiting the northern tribe. He’s probably brought back some new tales. It should be good.” It was the friendly ranger who had thrown an arm around Stan earlier who responded.

     “Oh, that’s good. I was worried it was old Rowen’s turn again.”

     “Hey, careful what you say about elder Rowen. He’s full of wisdom and experience, and he’s given an awful lot to defend our way of life. He deserves our respect.” Said the ranger closest to Stan. A man with a serious face. The tall one waved a hand at him dismissively.

     “Be quiet. I know about what he’s done and all that. I know he’s earned our respect. But I also know that he tells the exact same story every time. We share stories around the communal fire so that history is not forgotten. But who _doesn’t_ already know the creation story.” She rolled her eyes and let her arms drop to her side before adopting a low, faltering voice. “In the beginning, there was only clay. And from that clay rose four powerful beings~ These were the Ancients that made our world! Ancients this! Ancients that! Ancients Ancients Ancients!” Her imitation earned a few snickers from her fellows, but for the serious ranger who huffed his distaste and turned to Stanley who wore a small smile.

     “Are you really okay with this? How are you not more furious than I am?”

     The laughter died slowly and all eyes turned to Stan, whose smile fell into a neutral expression.

     “Rowan is very important to me. He’s practically my father. When they found me out in the world all alone, he was the first to volunteer to raise me. Or, so I’ve been told. … But…” Slowly, Stan smiled again, “He really does have a tendency to ramble on, especially about the ancients. You think you’re sick of hearing the story? I live with the guy!" 

     And then, Stan picked up where the tall ranger had left off, mimicking the wavering voice of his elderly guardian.

     “The four ancients squeezed the oceans and rivers from the clay, then piled the dried leftovers into the mountains! Blah blah blah, on and on and on.” He dropped the voice. “It would be so much easier if he could just sum it up, you know?”

     “Yeah,” chimed the tall one who was now grinning victoriously at the serious Drow. He was making a point of not looking at any of them now. “I could tell the story in less than five minutes,       I bet. Ancients split up the world into four. North made weather and our northern cousins, the Alfar elves. South made all animals and put fire in some of the mountains. East made the Drow elves and all the plants. And west made humans, dwarves, and put metals and gems into the earth.”

     “Then,” the friendly ranger jumped in, “the ancients all left through a door in the sky. They sealed the door with a lock of pure light. It became the first star. Sometimes they want to look down and see how the world is doing so they make new doors and lock them with new stars, but the first was the biggest and the brightest. And as the locks get older, sometimes pieces of them break off and fall to earth. And if you can catch one, you’re blessed with magical abilities beyond anything of this earth. But only one was ever able to accomplish this.”

     “Elias of the first era,” Said a short blond Drow, speaking for the first time with a bright gleam in his eyes. “Elias was the greatest Drow archer who ever lived. Back when our people were fractured into factions, he crafted the strongest bow ever made and pointed it at the first star. When he fired it, the force was enough to destroy the bow! The arrow soared through the sky and pierced the star, breaking a piece of it off. The fragment fell straight down and Elias caught it! This piece became the Origin Star! With its power, he united the Drow factions under one banner. He was the first High Drow Elf. And the Origin Star has been passed down his family line ever since.”

     “So now it’s in the possession of the High Elf, Kyle,” Stan finished with a nod. The whole story had taken them all of six minutes to tell to completion. With the story finished, the six of them lapsed briefly into silence, considering the tale. After a minute or so, Stan broke the silence again. “...So… Do all of you believe the story?” 

     “Of course,” the serious ranger asserted, “The Ancients created everything, and trying to claim otherwise is foolishness.”

     “No, that’s not what I mean,” Stan corrected, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “The thing with the Ancients is pretty solid, I suppose, but what about the whole shooting a star out of the sky thing? That one is purely story. Right?”

     “Yeah, I think you’re right about that one.” Said the shorter female ranger, shifting her foraging bag to her other shoulder. “The Drow, the Alfar, and the Humans all believe in the Ancients, but I’m pretty sure only the Drow have the Origin Star story. If someone had shot a star out of the sky, surely everyone would know about it, and wouldn’t the Ancients have been mad at him for breaking their door? And if we had something that powerful, others would try and steal it. And also, if we had it, we wouldn’t have had to fight so hard against the humans in the war. And we wouldn’t have lost…” Her voice drifted off as a somber mood settled over all of them suddenly.

     Wouldn’t have lost… what? Wouldn’t have lost family and friends in those bloody battles? Have lost a major part of the disputed woodlands? Wouldn’t have lost the last High Drow Elf and his wife? The human war was still a fresh wound to the spirits of many of the Drow. Less than a decade earlier the two races clashed over lands that both claimed, and the Drow had been overwhelmed. They were expert fighters, but the humans outnumbered them three to one. They had no chance to triumph over their sheer numbers. The drow had surrendered and retreated, and had been licking their wounds ever since.

     “...So…” the blond one spoke up hesitantly, finding the sedated atmosphere more than he could handle. “Why did the southern Ancient only make animals? The other three made things like elves and humans. They made people. So why’s the southern one different.”

     “It’s because the Ancient created intelligent creatures that were animals.” The serious one said, and everyone was glad to leave the heaviness of the war behind them once again. “Humans and elves can all think for themselves and beyond themselves. Well, the Ancient created animals like this too. While most animals aren’t self-aware, creatures like unicorns and dragons are. So they don’t look like people, but they’re basically people.”

     “Wow,” The tall one eyed him with a cocked brow. “I’ve never heard that before. Where’d you learn it?”

     “Nowhere. It’s just common sense. Those creatures can think, like us, so they're the Southern Ancient’s version of us. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” 

     “About as much sense as anything else.” said the female ranger compliantly.

     With a bit of time and carefully chosen conversation, the mood once again became jovial. Sparky ran around them, taking in all the scents of the forest and chasing small critters up trees.The five rangers laughed as they watched the wolf’s puppy-like antics.

     “I wish I had that kind of energy,” said the serious ranger, face softening slightly as the large canine laid in the grass and began rolling in something. “Even after hunting for several hours, he’s still ready to play around!”

     “Yeah. And Sparky isn’t even that young, is he,” inquired the female ranger. Stan shook his head.

     “He’s at least as old as I am. We’ve been buddies as long as I can remember. He’s almost more like a brother than a pet.”

     “Wow! It’s unusual for him to be this vivacious, then,” She informed him. “From what I’ve heard, in the best of conditions, timberwolves like Sparky only live to be about sixteen. And in normal conditions, that can be lowered by eight to ten years! So Sparky is basically grandpa wolf now. The fact that he can still move like this is pretty unbelievable.”

     “Sparky’s just special, I guess,” Stan dismissed. In truth, he had also considered the mystery of Sparky’s unheard of longevity. He wasn’t the only one of the tribe to have a wolf for a companion, but he _was_ the only one to have the same wolf companion all his life. On top of that, none of the other wolves behaved like Sparky, who acted almost as an extension of Stan himself. He had often wondered why he and Sparky had been found together, but no answers were ever forthcoming.

     “Yeah. Guess you’re right. He really seems like a great animal,” the serious one said. He reached out a hand to pet the wolf as he fell back to Stan’s side. Sparky tensed suddenly, and a deep growl rumbled from his throat as the hair along his back stood on end. The ranger snatched his hand back quickly, eyes widening in surprise. “What did I do?”

     “It’s not you,” Stan said, a feeling unease coming over him. “He senses something. There’s something off nearby.”

     “What is it?” Asked the blond one, eyes wide as saucers.

     “I don’t know. But I’ll go find out.” Stan took the deerskin from his shoulders and placed his foraging pack on the forest floor. “You all stay here. I’ll follow Sparky and see what the problem is. If it’s nothing, I’ll come back here. If I need your help, I’ll use the signal to call you to me.” His five companions nodded in agreement with this plan of action. With words of encouragement and caution at his back, he signaled Sparky to lead the way and ran after him through the forest underbrush.

     For the second time that day, Stan moved silently through the trees, the soft layer of mulch quieting his footfalls. Sparky moved ahead of him, nose to the ground and ears twitching this way and that as they picked up noises too faint or far away for his human partner to hear. Whatever it was they were tracking, it seemed to be making a lot of noise. His eyes switched between scanning the ground and scanning the trees and trail began to make itself evident. He spotted a tree branch that had been broken off close to the trunk. Close to that, there was a series of indents in a particularly soft section of the forest floor. As he examined this, the sound bird calls en masse echoed from elsewhere in the forest. The most obvious conclusion was that there was-

     Stanley’s heart jumped up into his throat, suddenly sensing something appear close behind him! His arm blurred as he snatched the hunting knife from his belt and swung it up as he spun on his heel, ready to strike. His would-be victim squeaked like a mouse that had been stepped on and fell to the ground, only narrowly dodging the blade. Even so, a few strands of golden blond hair fluttered to the ground. Stan lowered his guard and groaned, recognizing the figure of the wide-eyed blond ranger from his group. 

     “Damn it, Bradley!” He hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “What are you doing here? I told everyone to wait for me where they are.”

     The blond ranger, who Stan knew as the excitable young Bradley Biggle, began scrambling on the ground to gather up all the arrows that had fallen out of his quiver when he had fallen. Then he picked himself up with as much grace as he could muster. At least it hadn’t been a real ambush. That explained why Sparky hadn’t alerted him.

     “Sorry, Stan. Everyone else told me to come check on you. You’ve been gone a while.”

     “It hasn’t been _that_ long,” he huffed, sheathing the knife again.

     “Did you find anything, yet,” Bradley asked, apparently choosing to ignore Stan’s bitter comment.

      “Yeah, I did,” He said, turning his back on Bradley and kneeling for a closer look at the prints in the soft earth. 

      “You did!?” Bradley unshouldered his bow and nocked an arrow. “Where is it!? What is it?!”

     “That’s not exactly what I meant,” Stan said, looking up at the elf. “I haven’t found the source of what put Sparky on edge yet, but I think I know what we’re dealing with, even without seeing it. Here, look at that.” He pointed at the tree he had noticed before.

      “What? This? It’s a yew tree.” Bradley observed. “Looks like it’s missing a branch. 

     “Yes. You know how springy yew is, right?”

     “Yeah. We use it to make bows. It snaps right back.”

     “Right. It’s hard to break a yew branch by accident. But there’s clearly a broken branch.”

      “Oh!” Bradley exclaimed, understanding. “So someone must have broken it intentionally.”

     “And not just that, but recently too. See how the inside of the break is still green and wet?”

     Bradley nodded. “So they were probably here only a few minutes ago.”

     “Exactly. Now come look at this.” Stan gestured for Bradley to kneel beside him. The young Drow came to his knees and examined the ground before him.

     “...These are footprints, aren’t they? A lot of footprints.”

     “Yep. I’d say the prints of about ten people.”

     “Human footprints? Or maybe elf?”

     “No, definitely human footprints?" 

     “How can you be so sure?” Bradley asked. “Human and Elven footprints look exactly the same.”

     “Not exactly the same,” Stan corrected. “The big difference is in the patterns left behind by the boots. Elven boots are made for the forest. They’re lightweight and flexible to make it easier to move silently or climb trees. They have bumps on the soles to increase the grip. Human shoes tend to be heavier, meant to protect the feet from heavy things falling on them. Some even have steel worked into the toes. Sometimes elves have these too, but it’s rare since we don’t trade with humans very often. Stand up and step next to one of the prints with your own boot. Go on.”

     Interested, Bradley did as Stan asked of him, rising and pressing his foot into the earth. Then he crouched to examine the difference.

     “Oh! I see. The human prints are a lot deeper than mine.”

     “Exactly. In fact, for the size of the prints, I think they’re deeper than they should be even for an average human. So what’s making the humans heavy? Lots of supplies, maybe? Or perhaps armor. But not full armor. It’s not deep enough for that. Leather armor maybe. And weapons.”

     Stan looked over at Bradley and noticed how, once again, the other’s eyes had gone very wide.

     “Soldiers?”

     Stan nodded, getting to his feet. “Soldiers,” he confirmed, standing and looking off into the trees the direction the prints were heading. “And they aren’t far away. I heard a flock of birds take flight a ways ahead. We can catch up to them easily.” Stan looked at Bradley, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Go back to the others. Tell them what’s going on and bring them this way. Be ready to strike. I’m going to keep following.

     “Got it, Stan.” Bradley nodded importantly. Then he leaped up into the trees and was gone as quick as he had come.

     Stan sprung into motion himself. He couldn’t jump straight up into the tree branches like his companion, but he clambered up quickly and steadied himself.

     “Alright, Sparky, lead the way,” he requested. Below him, the wolf began to run towards the prey, and Stan followed him above, leaping from tree branch to tree branch with the confidence of a squirrel.

     The breeze carried the sound of voices to him after a few minutes and both he and his wolf slowed so as to not be detected. The voices were accompanied by heavy footfalls and the occasional jangle of metal. Stan rounded a tree trunk and got the first good look at the source of the disturbance. He had been wrong before. There were twelve, not ten. Twelve human soldiers dressed in boiled leather armor and metal helmets. On their backs and hips, they carried standard short swords. Probably military issue, Stan thought. It made him wish he had brought his own sword with him, but a sword was little use at hunting. All he could do was picture it where it hung in its scabbard on the wall of his hut. But that was unimportant now. What were they doing here? Were they attacking? He moved silently to the next tree, letting the foliage hide him from sight. All the soldiers seemed to be focused on the ground before them, their eyes rarely straying up to the branches above their heads. They spoke loudly, and seemingly without worry of being heard.

     “Ugh! Oh! These fuckin’ bugs,” One complained, swatting at his neck with a gloved hand. “They’re everywhere and I keep getting bit!”

     “Stop whining,” huffed another. “You aren’t the only one. We’re all uncomfortable. Wet, bug bitten, rocks in our boots, suck it up.” The soldier took a swipe at some of the undergrowth with a long branch, knocking it away angrily.

     “I miss the city. Let’s find the village and go home already.”

     “We should be there soon.” The speaker of this line walked at the back of the small regiment, a short cape fastened to his armor and a badge on his chest. The head officer? His face was buried in a heavily creased and slightly water damaged piece of parchment. Stan let the group pass beneath him so that he could get a peek at the contents. Was that a map? “Our directions were straightforward. Find the village, observe, then leave. No combat required.”

     “Isn’t that a pity.” A big one sighed, swinging his sword at the air. “I wouldn’t have minded skinning a few of them Drow bastards. You’ve heard the stories about them, haven’t you? They say they’ll butcher a human and feed their flesh to their elfling offspring. Or they’ll use their dark magic to control you. They can give you nightmares so bad that you will never sleep again, and you’ll just die of exhaustion.” 

     “Yeah. I remember my parents telling me how they slaughtered my big brother. He was in the army, and they cornered his platoon, strung him up in a tree, and used him as target practice.”

     “Pointy-eared bastards.”

     Stan had heard enough. He dropped down out of his tree on the other side of the trunk and began making a good deal of noise, like someone stumbling through the brush. He heard the soldiers all stop and the collective clatter of swords being drawn. He waited a moment, then revealed himself, coming around the trunk of the tree like a guileless nobody.

     “Halt!” The commanding officer shouted at him.

     “Hey, Captain Donovan, it’s a human!” One of the soldiers said, pointing a sword at Stan’s face. “Look at his ears.”

      “But he’s wearing Drow clothing!” Another pointed out, eyes narrowing.

     “Who, me?” He asked, donning a wide-eyed expression that would have put Bradley to shame, and speaking with a heavy yokel accent. “Oh nah, you don’t gotta worry bout me good sirs. I’m justa out hunting I is. Got me a good amount a deer to bring home to ma, see?” He opened his pack to show off the steaks packed in there. Some of the less wary soldiers moved a bit closer to look. Most of them didn’t seemed entirely fooled.

     “Weird place to be hunting,” Observed one, “This deep in Drow territory.”

     “Well weird place to be soldiering about.” Stan retorted, cleaning an ear with his finger. “What ya’ll here for, anyways?”

     “Shut up! Why are you wearing Drow clothing?”

     “What, these ol things?” he plucked at the homespun green cotton shirt he wore. “Good camouflage is all, dontcha think? Much better than what yall’r paradin about in. All those shiny weapons and bright red uniforms. Golly, you’re just beggin to be seen.”

     “We don’t have time for this.” the commanding officer said, folding his map and putting into a pouch on his belt. “We still have quite a ways to march so get out of here before we-”

     “No, you don’t.” Stan cut in, catching a subtle movement in the trees out of the corner of his eyes. “Don’t have far to march, I mean.”

     All around him, soldiers stiffened and hands tightened around their swords. 

     “Explain yourself,” demanded the commander.

     “Well, see, I think your marching ends here.” He dropped the innocent expression and the accent. “You will go no further.” Then stan pursed his lips and let out a piercing whistle. 

     Many things happened all at once. Soldiers raised weapons to cut down the unknown human. A blood chilling growl sounded from the underbrush, followed by an enormous gray streak shooting out and locking its powerful jaws around a soldier’s throat. There was the thrum of four bows releasing simultaneously, and the scream of four targets as they hit their marks; three arrows through three throats and one through an eye. Before the four soldiers hit the ground, a pair of boots thudded down and the tall ranger spun with her knife in her hand cutting off the fingers of the closest soldier. And Stan drew his own hunting knife. It wasn’t ideal for fighting but it would do for now. He much preferred swords. Perhaps he could borrow one.

     Two soldiers began lunging and swiping at Stan. He crouched. The blade passed overhead, ruffling his hair. The second soldier tried to catch him by swinging low. Stan jumped straight up from his crouch. His feet cleared the sword and touched the ground again. He lunged, taking advantage of his opponent being off balance. His hunting knife was plunged into the soldier's collar. He could see the second man ready to strike again. Swiftly, Stan danced around to behind the soldier, using him as a shield. The man’s companion tore a deep slash in his gut and he collapsed with a weak cry. Stan charged the other soldier. A punch to the man’s jugular laid him low. The sword fell from his hand. Stan snatched it and drove it into his opponent’s chest before dragging it downward. The second soldier fell dead at his feet.

     Behind him, two more soldiers had fallen to skillfully marked arrows, and Sparky was ravaging the man he had taken down. Only three remained now, and one was gravely injured by the tall ranger’s hunting knife.

     The skirmish was not over yet, however. Emboldened by the apparent ease of the human’s destruction, the friendly ranger became careless and failed to effectively hide his movements through the trees. The commander, spotting the movement, tore his cape from around his shoulders and flung it into the air before the elf, startling him and causing him to lose his footing. He fell from the tree and was set upon by the head soldier. The one called Captain Donovan gave the fallen Drow a savage kick to the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Then he dodged behind a tree, three arrows sprouting from the ground where he had been mere moments before. 

     “Shit!” One of the archers in the trees cursed. She tried to find a location that would give her a better shot at the commander, but she was taken by surprise by one remaining soldier. He pitched his sword wildly into the trees. It flew end over end and the pommel hit her wrist. She cried out in pain. The weapon had shattered the bone in her wrist. She, too, tumbled from the tree.

     Now weaponless, the offending soldier could do nothing. Stan approached quickly from his blind spot. With one savage slash, the soldier’s head was parted from his body. Nearby, the tall she-elf finished of the soldier she had maimed. Now all that remained was the commander.

     The human in question emerged from behind a tree. Everyone’s breath caught in their throats. The wild-eyed commander held the friendly ranger to the ground with his boot, sword point pressing where the skull met the spine. He looked from Stan to the tall ranger, to the girl with the broken wrist, and then up into the trees. He had lost his helmet in the struggle. Walnut brown hair now stood on end, adding to his crazed expression. The sound of bowstrings creaking as they were drawn back seemed incredibly loud in the sudden silence. The sound brought the sword of the commander more firmly into contact with the hostage ranger.

     “Nobody move,” He shouted, sounding slightly breathless. “Nobody… move… I know there are four archers. Two of you still in the trees… If I get any hint you’re about to attack, your friend’s blood will be on your hands.”  Sparky rose from the corpse he had been mutilating and snarled. “A-and control that beast,” he demanded. Stan held out a hand and Sparky stood statue still.

     A breeze blew through, blowing everyone’s hair and swirling the smell of blood around. Stan’s senses were alive with adrenaline. Everything around him seemed hyper-realistic. The smell of death was intoxicating. The sound of his own blood as it rushed through his veins seemed deafening in his ears. His heart felt like a battering ram in his chest. He looked into the eyes of his companions and saw their minds racing, trying to find a way out of this. Only a second ago the world had seemed alive with motion. Now it was all nothing but stone.

     “You all are going to let me leave,” Captain Donovan said, tense muscles almost visibly shaking. He seemed caught between fight and flee. “You will all come down to where I can see you and put your weapons on the ground. Then you’re going to take twenty paces back. I will knock out your friend but leave him alive. Then I will leave. On your honors, you must swear not to pursue me. If any of you refuse, I will kil-" 

     From the trees, something flew, catching all of them by surprise. Captain Donovan turned his head and watched a slab of venison soar off to his right. For a split second his pressure on his captive's neck lightened. Within the same heartbeat of throwing the steak, Bradley Biggle fired an arrow at the enemy commander. The speed of his shot caused a severe drop in accuracy. The arrow found home with its tip buried in Donovan’s left shoulder.

     Shocked, the captain staggered back, dropping his sword. In the blink of an eye, Stan and the tall Ranger were on top of him, locking his arms behind his back and forcing him to his knees.

     Bradley and the serious Ranger emerged from the trees. The serious one hurried to attend to the injured ranger. The friendly ranger leaped to his feet and rushed Bradley with a wide smile that couldn’t disguise the terror still lingering in his eyes. He slapped his companion on the back.

     “Incredible shot, Bradley!!” He exclaimed, and the young ranger blushed.

     “I… just did what I had to.” He said humbly.

     “You saved my neck! I owe you my life, my friend.”

     Once the pleasantries were handled, there was still the matter of the human commander to take care of. The four archers gathered around where their two companions now held the human. Sparky also joined them, his muzzle drawing threateningly close to the man’s throat. Suddenly realizing his predicament, the Captain fell apart.

     “Wait!!” He screamed the word with clear desperation and fear. “Wait! Please! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! Mercy of Ancients I don’t want to die!!!”

     “Give us one good reason not to gut you right now,” the serious ranger snarled.

     “Please! Please, I-I-I can be useful to you! You can check! Clyde Donovan! Captain Clyde Donovan! I’m very important to the human army! Very important! You can trade me! A-A hostage exchange! Oh blessed creation, please!”

     The group looked at each other, silently weighing their options as the captured man sniveled and groveled. After a moment, Stan made the decision.

     “Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen, Donovan. We’ll let you live. For now. If you’re as useful as you say, then your leaders will be willing to exchange you for one of our own and you’ll go home.”

     “O-one of our own?” He asked in confusion. “But, you’re human. Like m-”

     “But,” Stan interrupted, “if your leadership refuses to trade for you, then you’ll be joining your men.” He jerked a thumb at the severed head of one of the soldiers, and the captain’s face lost any remaining color it might have had. “Until we know exactly what’s going to happen, you’re going to share the details of exactly what you were doing here. Got it?”

     Slowly, Clyde nodded, resigned to his captivity.

     “Glad we understand each other.” He said, knocking lightly on the man’s leather breastplate. “This is pretty nice armor you have. I don’t think you’ll be needing it anymore, so I’ll take it." 

     The five rangers stripped the captain down to his underwear and distributed his goods amongst themselves. His discarded cape was used to splint the female ranger’s wrist, and his sword, along with all those belonging to his men, were driven point first into the ground and left to rust. With the invasion resolved, the rangers retrieved whatever materials from the deer they had left behind and resumed their walk home. The five Drow walked in front of the hostage, and Stan and Sparky walked on either side of him. The captured human stared defeatedly at the ground, one hand covering the place where the arrow still sprung from his shoulder.

     “Traitor…” It was little more than a whisper. Stan looked over at him. 

     “What was that?”

     “Nothing. I said nothing,” Clyde muttered.

     “Thought so.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Lord of the Drow must make many difficult decisions. Luckily, he is not alone. When the burden of ruling becomes too great, he has companions he can turn to.

The arrival of a human captive in the village had caused quite a stir. The people whispered to each other, sharing speculation and theories. The human was sent to burn the village, some said. Another war was starting, some posterized, chewing their nails nervously. It was a human commander they had captured, it was a lost farmer, it was a lowly deserter soldier, it was a beautiful lady, it was a handsome man, and on and on the rumors flew. Very few knew the truth of what had occurred, and those who did were not talking about it. All over the village, the drow tossed around their rumors and did their work, and occasionally shot curious glances at the grandfather tree--which held the royal quarters in its great bows--where their High Lord was no doubt formulating a plan.

And he was, indeed. Kyle, the High Lord of the Drow, watched as his general examined the prisoner. The general’s heavily scarred hands turned the prisoner’s face this way and that, and he let out a derisive scoff.

“Are we sure this one is really all that important to the humans,” the gruff man asked, looking back at his lord.

Kyle nodded. “According to the ranger party that found him, he announced himself to be ‘Captain Donovan’ and they reported that he was clearly the one in charge.”

  
“A captain? Humph.” The general released the human, wearing the expression of one who couldn’t free themselves of some unpleasant odor. “There’s not a scar on this curr. So, either he’s an unbelievably fine fighter, capable of dodging every blow ever thrown at him, or he’s a jelly-kneed coward. And since he was captured by a group of rangers without sword or armor, I don’t believe it is the former.”

“Whether he is a coward or not isn’t our concern at this time, General Alder” Kyle reminded him, taking a seat at the council table. Normally, the long rectangular table would be populated with elders, strategists, and advisors, but as of now, it was just the two of them and the hostage in the echoing chamber. “Our concern is whether or not he’s useful to us as a bargaining chip. What have the humans taken from us that is worth returning a captain to them? What information can we get out of him while we have him?”

“My apologies my lord. I allowed my emotional investments to cloud my focus,” the general apologized. Kyle waved a hand to dismiss it. He understood how much Alder hated humans. He was one of the few remaining survivors of the Drow-Human war. He had seen numerous cruelties done by humans in his time. It was understandable that he would be sharp-tongued and critical where the prisoner was concerned. The general composed himself and took a seat in the straight-backed chair to the right of his Lord.

“On to the matter at hand,” He said. “As you, no doubt remember, a fortnight ago we lost contact with a scout troop we sent into human-occupied territory. They were tasked with making note of the area’s defenses, the strength of the men, and the location of the vital supplies. Our goal was to eventually mount an attack that would chase the humans out and allow us to reclaim a portion of our lost forest. However, all the scouts failed to return to the rendezvous point at the decided time, and all attempts to discern their position have failed. In addition, we believe that a spy that we placed in the human capital was discovered and captured. James Valmer was sent to the capital disguised as a human bard with the goal of relating any relevant information he might overhear back to us. He, too, failed to appear at the rendezvous, and other spies we had positioned in the area have been forced to retreat, reporting an increased number of guards searching for disguised Drow.”

Kyle sat silent for the space of several heartbeats, eyes tracing the woodgrain of the table while he pondered the information the general had presented to him.

“How many were in the scouting troop?” He asked without looking up.

“Five, my lord. All skilled scouts. However, if it came to fighting, I’m afraid I cannot guarantee that they would hold their own.”

“I see.” Kyle put an elbow on the surface of the table and tangled his fingers into the fire-red curls that were only slightly kept in check by the royal wreath that circled his forehead. The fingers of his other hand drummed rhythmically on the wood. So, the humans had six hostages and they had one. How much was a captain worth to the humans, he wondered. Could they barter for the return of all six? If not, who did he take and, by extension, who would he leave behind?

“Do any of them have family?” He asked the general slowly.

“Two of the scouts are married; Asher and Amos. Amos has two young children. One--Magnolia--is engaged to her sweetheart. Aspen is the sole provider for his younger siblings after the death of their parents. Kanis is unattached. The spy, Valmer, is also unattached.”

The information didn’t make the decision any easier. “Is there any chance,” he began, closing his eyes, “that we could convince them to trade all six of their hostages for our one?” The general blew a stream of air through his teeth contemplatively.

“For a Captain? It’s unlikely, my Lord. For a general, perhaps. Or for a particularly loved fighter. But not for a Captain. In my experience, the most we can reasonably hope for is three. Four, if we’re lucky and this trash is as important to the humans as he claims to be.” Alder shot another glare at the prisoner, who glared back balefully, unable to comment, bound and gagged as he was.

“I see...,” the Lord said again, more quietly this time. He knew what he needed to do. The decision weighed heavily on him as he looked up at his general. He caught the man’s tender expression before it changed quickly to one of solid dutifulness. General Alder had been his father’s general as well. The old soldier had watched Kyle grow up, and now he was watching the little boy that had begged him for bow lessons and war stories make calls on the lives of the people he was prematurely responsible for. Kyle pretended that he hadn’t seen.

“General, would you please be so kind as to fetch me a scribe. I need to draft a writ of demand to the human capital.”

“Of course, my lord. I believe there is one awaiting orders outside this chamber.” The general got to his feet and strode over to the large double doors on the opposite end of the room, his footfalls echoing like the marching of many soldiers around the room. One of the doors was cracked open and a slight-built elf slipped in, her arms laden with parchment, ink, and sealing wax. She hastily curtsied to the lord and then hurried to the table. Both Lord and general watched as she rushed nervously to organize her materials. Her parchment was spread, her ink was uncapped, a candle was lit, and a melting tray full of wax was placed over the flame. Finally, she dipped her quill and looked at the High Elf Lord, ready for his dictation.

Kyle rose to his feet and went to the window of the chamber to look out, speaking loudly and clearly so there was no doubt about his commands.

“I, Kyle Broflovski, King of the Eastern Forests, High Lord of the Drow Elves, Write to inform you, the King of Humanity, of our custody of one of your military commanders; one Captain Clyde Donovan. He was detained earlier this day--the seventh sun of Novetide--discovered commanding a band of soldiers through Drow territory. The entirety of the Captains troop was eliminated in the skirmish that followed their discovery. As of now, Captain Donovan remains unharmed.

“I have been informed of your potential possession of a number of my men. The missing are as follows: James Valmer: Citizen Musician. Morgan Asher: Scout. Stewart Amos: Scout. Feylin Magnolia: Scout. Trevor Aspen: Scout. Wulfric Kanis: Scout.

“In exchange for Captain Clyde Donovan’s life, I must firmly request the return of at least four of my subjects. This number is non-negotiable. The four to be returned are: Morgan Asher, Stewart Amos, Feylin Magnolia, and Trevor Aspen. Once again, the number and names of those to be returned are non-negotiable.

“I assure you that Captain Donovan will remain alive, unharmed, and cared for until we no longer see benefit from doing so. I ask that you respond post haste with either your acceptance or denial of the terms I have outlined above. I also humbly request a report on the health and wellbeing of all six prisoners, should you possess them. I shall expect your reply before the thirtieth moon of Novetide. Should a response fail to arrive by that time, I cannot guarantee the continued health of Captain Donovan.

“Such is the word of the High Lord. With Regards, Kyle Broflovski.”

As Kyle’s voice faded away, nothing but the sound of quill scratching on parchment could be heard. He took the opportunity to breathe in deeply, quelling the guilt he felt at having to pick and choose his people. It especially hurt to have to leave James Valmer in the clutches of the enemy. Kyle knew him personally. The man liked to go by Jimmy. He had been born with twisted legs and a persistent impediment to his speech, yet there was no one in the village that could match his quick wit or his skills on the lute. He knew Jimmy was tougher than he appeared, but it still caused him great turmoil to have to abandon him.

The scratching halted and the letter was read back to him. He turned away from the window to face the two inside.

“What say you, General, he asked, “do you find my words satisfactory?”

“It is not my place to derive satisfaction from anything you do, my lord,” General Alder replied faithfully. “However, if it is my opinion you are after, I can tell you that I believe your words to be well spoken and your demands wise. This should do nicely.”

“Thank you, General. Scribe, please dry the letter and prepare it for delivery.”

Under the watchful eye of the Lord and the military man, the scribe took in a huge lungful of air and then exhaled slowly over the parchment. A billowing cloud of purple mist was expelled past her lips, carrying with it the unmistakable energy of magic. The mist seemed to cling to the parchment, quickly drying the pine-green ink, and bestowing on it a level of water, fire, and dirt resistance that increased its chances of arriving at its destination completely readable.

Her long breath ceased. The mist dispersed, leaving the parchment seemingly unextraordinary in any way. The scribe’s deft fingers folded the parchment, then rolled it into a tight spiral. She tied it closed with a ribbon the color of the spring grass and then poured a dollop of emerald sealing wax onto the knot.

Now it was Kyle’s turn. His fingers found the hair-thin chain of gold that laid against the skin of his neck. With a careful reverence, he lifted it up and over his head. From the chain swung a pendant of opalescent white crystal in the shape of a six-pointed star. The pendant normally stayed safely hidden beneath his clothes, coming out only occasionally to act out its duty of signet on official documents. The scribe offered him the rolled parchment. Kyle took the pendant in his fingers and pressed it firmly into the lump of warm green wax, holding it there until the wax cooled and released the pendant with no sticking whatsoever.

“There,” he nodded approvingly at the now sealed letter, slipping the chain back around his neck and tucking away the star once again. “Please take this to the raven keeper at once. I want it sent out without any delay, understood?”

The scribe, who had said not a word since she had been called in, took the scroll and nodded. She slipped the letter into a pouch at her hip, gathered up her materials, and excused herself with another curtsy.

“Well, that’s done, then,” Kyle sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and marveling at how tense he was. “I think I’m going to try and unwind before dinner. General, I trust you can take care of our honored prisoner?”

“I can indeed, my Lord,” Alder confirmed, going over to Clyde and dragging him up by his bindings.

“General, I ask you be gentle in your search for information,” Kyle requested, already most of the way out the doors. “I told the king he would be unharmed. If you must use extreme measures, see to it that it doesn’t leave a mark. I don’t want anything to potentially hurt our chances of exchange.”

“I understand, my Lord.” Kyle concerned himself with it no more and took his leave.

He dragged the tips of his fingers along the wall, feeling the bumps and knots that comprised it. The keep of the Lord High Elf was situated in--and made up of--the branches of the ancient Grandfather Tree. The entire structure was made of living wood, rough to the touch and fragrant. The massive willow tree stood taller and spread wider than any other tree in the forest. It was said to be the first tree planted by the Ancient of the East. It was easy for Kyle to believe it. The air surrounding the Grandfather Tree felt as old as time itself and seemed to buzz with a long forgotten energy.

Through the living hallways, Kyle sensed the warmth of the great fire below him in the Grandfather Tree’s grotto. The wooden cave was home to the throne of the Lord High Drow Elf, as well as to numerous tables and chairs where the whole tribe gathered every night to eat together. The grand cooking fire in the center of it all kept the royal dwelling pleasantly warm in the winter time.

He exited through the grand entrance and came out onto the platform that circled the gargantuan trunk. The air outside contrasted the warm atmosphere he had just left behind, being chill and brisk with a slight breeze blowing through and giving motion to everything. He advanced to the edge of the platform and stepped onto the elevator: a separate platform, about four feet by four feet, with railing on three sides and a gate one could pull closed on the fourth. Kyle did this, then gave a rope that dangled above him a firm tug.

Far below, a bell tinkled, alerting the dozing operator that someone was in his elevator. He snapped to his feet and gave his donkey a firm shove. The creature began a slow trot around in circles, turning the great pulley system it was attached to. As the turning gears began gradually releasing rope, the elevator began its slow descent.

From his position in the gently swinging elevator, Kyle was able to see much of his domain spread out before him. The village had stood in this ancient forest for centuries, and the size of the trees made that clear. While none were anywhere near the size of the Grandfather Tree, the smallest of them would still take at least ten men with arms outstretched to circle their trunks completely. In the branches of these great trees, the Drow made their homes. Platforms supported the weight of houses high off the ground. The lower houses connected to spiraling ramps were typically the homes of the elderly or the ill. The homes built high up connected by webs of rope bridges were the norm for most Drow. And the small structures built almost up in the canopy were the play areas and clubhouses of the children. In the trunks and roots of the trees, one could find any number of structures carved out at ground level. Shops and stables, storage and meeting houses, places to sit and places of protection for the other pulley systems scattered throughout the village. The Drow were truly one with their woodland home.

With a gentle plop, the elevator came to a rest on the ground, and the operator bowed at the waist as his lord stepped out. Kyle nodded to him and began down a path that he walked often. All those he passed paused in their activity to bow or curtsy respectfully. Then once he had gone by they continued on their way. It was almost dinner time, so a majority of the activity in town was directly related to the preparation of the communal meal.

In the Drow culture, morning and midday meals were the responsibility of the individual. Food could be bought or traded from bakers, hunters, and shopkeepers. But dinner was a special time, meant to bring the tribe together after the tasks of the day had driven them apart. Food was cooked and eaten as a large group, and once the food was gone, someone would stand up and present a story: usually a history of their people or a moral fable. More recently, they had been presented with war stories from the survivors of the great battles. Tonight, the storyteller would be Ike, Kyle’s adopted brother.

Kyle approached a tree with a house situated close to the ground. Up and down the trunk clung the dying remains of climbing rosebushes, the onset of winter forcing them into a chilly sleep. Once close enough he ducked his head into a hollowed out arch in the base of the tree, intending to say hello to its resident. However, Kyle discovered that the hollow was empty. All it held was a threadbare blanket, a leg bone that had once belonged to a large animal, and the oppressive smell of wet wolf.

From behind him, Kyle heard the sound of a gentle, wheezing laugh. He withdrew himself from the wolf hollow and turned to face the sound. Its source was a stooped old man, smiling at Kyle with fond familiarity.

“Good evening, my Lord,” He greeted. “What, pray tell, brings one as noble as yourself to my humble, smelly wolf hole?”

“Elder Rowen!” Kyle smiled, reaching out and taking one of the withered hands in both of his own. “It’s good to see you.”

“Oh, you see me often enough at council meetings, young one. More often than is good for me, I fear. Every year the trip to the Grandfather Tree feels longer and longer. And then there’s that blasted donkey pulling the lift. It jerks and sways so violently sometimes, I fear my heart may fail me on the way up. That is if I’m not dumped off the platform first.” The old man chuckled.

“Elder, I have invited you to stay with me in the keep before. And the offer remains ever open. If it is so hard for you to go back and forth then please, make your home in my home. And I don’t want to hear anything about not being a member of the royal family. Given how long you have looked after me and how close you were to my father, you practically are my family. Please, won’t you consider it?”

The old man shook his head slowly. “You are generous as always, my Lord, and you honor me with your words, but I must refuse yet again. The Grandfather Tree is your home. This one is mine.” Rowan shuffled stiffly over to the tree’s trunk and ran a hand along an exposed section of the bark. “This tree has been my home for three centuries. It holds memories for me, even as the ones I hold start to leak from my head. And it is Stanley’s home as well. And though he is grown and capable of caring for himself, I don’t wish to leave him alone just yet. My time on this earth will soon draw to a close. But what little time I have left, I will spend with him.”

“I understand,” Kyle said, watching the ancient elder. He had offered Stan a place in the royal halls as well once before, but he too had denied him, for much the same reasons as his guardian; his home was right here in this tree.

“Speaking of Stan,” Kyle continued, steering the conversation back toward his original purpose for coming, “I came to find him. I was hoping to speak to him for a bit. But he doesn’t appear to be here since Sparky isn’t here either. Do you know where I might find him?”

“I thought that the reason for your presence. You always come calling for Stan.”

“As you said, Elder; I see you often enough at meetings.”

Rowan gave another wheezing laugh before answering. “Indeed. Well, Stanley went to wash at the spring. When he returned home he was absolutely covered in blood and dirt. He thought it best not to turn up to dinner in that state, and I quite agree.”

“So he’s at the spring, then? Thank you, Elder Rowan. I will see you at the meal. May blessings find you.”

“And you, my young king.”

Kyle watched the old man shuffle up the ramp and into his treehouse, noticing the way he groaned softly with each seemingly painful step. It seemed it hadn’t been hyperbole when he had spoken about not having much time left. The thought made Kyle’s heart feel heavy. When the Rowen disappeared from view, he turned and began walking swiftly in the opposite direction.

The hot spring was located outside the village, connected to the town only by a narrow meandering path. It took Kyle down a steep incline until he stood at the base of a rocky hill. There, nestled in among the tree roots, a spring bubbled gently, steaming in the chill air.

Kyle smiled softly, seeing a set of clean clothes folded neatly over a low hanging branch. A few more steps brought the stone surrounding the spring into view. There was sparky, curled up on the warm stone, his chin resting comfortably on his folded paws. Kyle shifted his weight slightly, the cloth of his great robes rustling softly. Sparky’s ears twitched and the wolf raised his head. He sniffed the air and his bushy tail began to thump against the floor. Then, all at once, the lupine beast bounded to his feet and threw himself at Kyle with an excited yelp. The Lord laughed as he was knocked to the ground by a creature as long as he was tall and significantly heavier. The wolf nuzzled and nipped playfully, the great pink tongue finding its way into Kyle’s ear and making him cringe with the sensation.

“Sparky! Get off! Get off of me you mutt! Come on off! Hey, no licking, come on, that’s disgusting! Yes, I’m happy to see you too, now OFF!”

“Sparky, down!” The wolf obeyed the voice of his master and slowly backed off, letting Kyle sit up and wipe the drool from his face. “Come lay down, Spark.” The wolf retreated and plopped himself back down in the warm spot he had vacated to greet Kyle.

“Can't you control your animal, Marshwalker,” Kyle asked, stepping out of the tree cover and folding his arms across the chest as he wore a playfully stern expression.

Stan shrugged. “So sorry, my Lord. We weren’t expecting anyone to be here at this late evening hour. You startled him.”

“He viciously attacked me! I should demand a coat from his pelt!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Kyle.” Stan balled up a soaking piece of cloth and threw it at the High Lord. It smacked into Kyle’s shoulder and fell to the ground with a plop, leaving a dark wet spot on his red robes. Kyle snorted and both of them devolved into laughter. Kyle picked up the wad of fabric and tossed it back in the water before sitting himself next to Sparky on the warm stones.

“You know how much I hate it when you call me ‘my lord.’ You’re not just some citizen; you’re my best friend. You have been for almost as long as I can remember.”

“First of all, yeah, I know you hate it. Which is partially why I do it,” Stan said to him, taking the wad of fabric and scrubbing it between his hands. On further inspection, Kyle realized it was Stan’s shirt, and that the dark stains on it must’ve been what was left of the soldiers’ blood. He was amazed at how much of the once green fabric was now a rusty brown. It served as a reminder that, while Stan was a humble ranger, he knew his way around a sword. “And second of all, it’s just habit now. Rowan has instructed me to call you ‘my lord’ since day one. If he heard me call you Kyle, he’d give me an earful.”

“But he can’t hear you. When it’s just us can we please drop some of the formality,” he pleaded? “I get enough of it every day from everyone else: I am Lord every other time, so this time let me just be Kyle.”

“Alright. I can do that.” Stan gave up on cleaning his stained shirt and simply tossed it to dry land to let it sit forlornly beside the equally sopping pair of trousers he had also given up on washing.

“Good. Thanks.” Kyle sighed and reclined until his head rested on Sparky’s side and he could look up at the broken fragments of the orange sky visible through the canopy. The wolf didn’t seem to mind terribly that he was being used as a pillow. “It’s nice to only be Kyle now and then. Can’t goof off when I’m the High Elf Lord of the Drow. There’s too much responsibility.” He trailed off for a bit, then continued, “Today, I had to choose who deserved to be rescued more. We could only barter for so many hostage returns. I had to leave people behind. I’m responsible for their lives, man.”

Stan went to the edge of the hot spring and rested his arms on the edge, chin resting on top. “You did what you had to do, Kyle. Even if you had to leave someone behind, others might be saved. That’s what matters.”

“Is it, Stan,” he asked, feeling the validation from his companion lighten his burden ever so slightly?

“Yeah. You can’t always save everyone, but you can usually save someone. One life is worth just as much as any other.”

“You say that, but your clothes are covered in blood. You snuffed out a bunch of lives today. Isn’t that a bit ironic?”

Stan shrugged. “I tend to care more about animal lives. Most humans are kinda garbage in my opinion.”

“Am I garbage?”

“Yes. But less garbage than other people. I’m garbage too. The guys in the forest today were super garbage. Like, toxic waste poured into a well kind of garbage.”

Stan’s reasoning was full of fallacy, but Kyle overlooked it, for now, choosing to take comfort in it rather than take the argument apart.

“Still, making that choice left me so tired. All I did was think and speak but I felt like I had just fought a battle. No wonder dad always looked so exhausted, even before the war.”

The two of them drifted into silence, each remembering a time now passed. Kyle remembered playing with Stan whenever Elder Rowan brought him over for council meetings with his parents. While the old people blabbed on and on about boring politics, the two of them and Sparky ran around the Grandfather Tree, playing knights and Dragons, Hide and Seek, and all number of childhood games. Stan was usually the only other child Kyle got to play with. There weren’t typically average folk in the royal dwelling place, and the elders were all too old to have young children. Eventually, Kyle’s parents adopted his younger brother, Ike, from the Alfar elves, and the boys got a new playmate.

“I heard Ike is back.” Stan’s voice pulled Kyle out of his memories. The young lord nodded, lifting the twisted wooden crown off his head and laying it to the side of him for the sake of comfort. His red curls sprang free of the circlet and mingled happily with the wolf’s fur.

“Yeah. He got back last night. It’s a long way to the main Alfar village. It’s already snowing up there, he said, so that slowed his return. He was supposed to be back three days ago. As good as the Alfar are, they can’t control the weather.”

“How was his visit? Any idea what story he’s going to share tonight?”

“No idea. I haven’t had much time to talk to him. I’ve just been too busy. Hopefully, things calm down quickly.”

“Things will,” Stan reassured him. “Hey, close your eyes. I’m getting out.” Kyle obliged and contented himself listening to the wind in the leaves, the gentle patter of water, the wolf’s steady heartbeat, and the flailing of a wet human trying to pull his dry clothes on before he froze solid. Once the last sound subsided somewhat, Kyle sat up and opened his eyes, replacing his crown where it belonged.

“Well, you’re not covered in blood, which is good, but you still smell like wet fur.” Kyle teased. “You almost smell more like a wolf than Sparky.”

“Oh I’m soooooo sorry, m’lord,” Stan mocked, “that I do not meet your olfactory expectations. Not all of us can smell like spices and flowers all the time.”

“I do not smell like spices and flowers,” Kyle protested.

“You do too. You just can’t tell because you’re nose blind to it.”

“Whatever. Come on, let’s head back. Dinner is soon.”

“Yeah, I can tell. I can smell it from here. It smells like pork and honey.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Kyle said offhandedly, well used to Stan’s seemingly impossible sense of smell by now. The guy could smell chocolate in the pocket of someone across a room. Stan responded simply with a shrug. Kyle stood, and Stan whistled, bringing Sparky to his feet and too his master’s side. Then, together, the three of them walked the path back to camp.


End file.
